


It Goes Like This

by agentmoppet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Sad Ending, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 19:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7235317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/pseuds/agentmoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've seen your flag on the marble arch<br/>And love is not a victory march<br/>It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Goes Like This

**Author's Note:**

> I don't ordinarily do songfics. But this is one of my favorite songs, and I had this idea in my head for a while. I hope I did it well... Songfics are incredibly difficult to do well. 
> 
> If nothing else, I'm sad now.... Come, be sad with me.
> 
> (I recommend listening to the song before or while reading it. Hallelujah - the Jeff Buckley version.)

_Well, I heard there was a secret chord_  
_That David played and it pleased the Lord_  
_But you don't really care for music, do you?_  
_Well it goes like this:_  
_The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift_  
_The baffled king composing Hallelujah_

It was at a ministry function, same as all the others, that Harry Potter saw Draco Malfoy for the first time since Hogwarts. Malfoy had aged – they all had – but he held himself with a confidence and surety that mesmerized Harry. On such a regal frame, the small signs that showed he was heading close to thirty made him look strong and wise.

The same signs, when seen in a mirror, only made Harry feel old. He spent each day searching for a strand of silver in his dark hair and cataloging new aches in his bones. Ginny used to tell him he was being melodramatic, that he wasn't old – that neither of them were – and that even if he was, he should be grateful that he had been allowed the opportunity.

There was never any response that Harry could give to that. It was a special talent of Ginny's, to cut right to the core without even trying. Their last weeks together had been such a tangle of guilt and regret that Harry was astonished they'd been able to break free long enough to separate the pieces of themselves from the mess. Sometimes he wasn't sure he'd found them all.

He set his untouched glass of champagne down on the table and walked over towards Malfoy. Malfoy's head lifted the second Harry began moving, even though he was on the other side of the room, obscured from vision by a crowd of people. His cool eyes watched Harry approach without surprise.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, nodding politely.

Harry nodded back and watched as Malfoy delicately peeled off a layer of his hors d'oeuvre, inspecting it critically before placing it on his tongue and swallowing it.

Malfoy considered the flavor before pulling a face and relieving himself of the remainder of his appetizer via a passing waiter's tray. “Enjoying yourself?”

“No.”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the room, wondering just how many deals were being settled behind the guise of friendly smiles and dull networking.

Malfoy smirked, but it seemed amused, rather than spiteful. “Of course not. Too Slytherin for you. I'm surprised you even bother to still show up to these things.”

“I have to.”

“I don't recall rules ever being a problem for you before.”

Harry smiled despite himself, the genuine sensation almost unfamiliar. How long had it been since he had smiled without forcing it? Not counting the times he was with his children, of course.

“Sorry to hear about your family situation.” Malfoy's eyes met Harry's, and Harry was surprised to see no hint of insincerity there.

Harry shrugged one shoulder, uncomfortable at the thought of discussing his divorce with Malfoy, of all people. “Thank you. It's hardest on the kids. We – Gin and I – we knew it was coming for a while.”

Malfoy flagged down a waitress and took two glasses of champagne, handing one to Harry. The waitress tried to catch Harry's eye, but he ignored her. Undeterred, she smoothed her free hand over her tight black skirt – oddly muggle in design – and sashayed her hips as she walked away. Harry kept his eyes firmly on Malfoy, even as she glanced over her shoulder one last time, and studied the barely concealed amusement on Malfoy's face. His eyes crinkled in a way that made Harry think of Ginny when she was relaxed; it was an expression that he would never have thought to see on Malfoy.

“It tends to be that way,” Malfoy said, turning back to him, his lips twitching briefly as he took in Harry's uncomfortable stance. The expression was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was back to his unreadable mask. “Astoria and I held on for Scorpius, but we knew it was a losing battle.”

Harry ran his thumb across the side of the glass, watching the condensation slide free beneath his touch. “It just didn't feel right at the end.” He sighed, saying the words he had tried to ignore for so long. “I'm not sure it ever did.”

Malfoy stayed silent, listening without interrupting as Harry struggled for the words. Time really had changed him.

“I don't even know what it's meant to feel like,” Harry finished finally, looking across at the sea of Ministry officials, all blurring into a faceless mass of tinkling glasses and false laughter.

Malfoy shifted, thoughtful. “I'm not sure anyone really does, Potter. But still, we try.”

 _Well your faith was strong but you needed proof_  
_You saw her bathing on the roof_  
_Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya_  
_She tied you to her kitchen chair_  
_She broke your throne and she cut your hair_  
_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_

He joined a local Quidditch team. It made him feel young again, in a way that he hadn't felt since he was eleven. The joy of flying, the impossibility of it – it never grew old.

The familiar rush of flying against Malfoy, their hands grappling against each other, breath huffing in the frosty air as they fought to be the first to lay a hand on the snitch, was almost as intoxicating as the game itself.

“You've gotten slow in your age, Potter,” Malfoy taunted lightly, throwing his muddy jumper in a pile in the corner of the change room.

“Speak for yourself, old man.” Harry grinned.

Malfoy returned the look and rubbed his hand over his lower back, the smirk changing to a rueful grin. Despite the teasing, they had both played well today, better than they had all season.

It was a routine now: Harry came to watch Malfoy's games, happily calling insults from the stands when Malfoy swooped past on his Firebolt V. Malfoy returned the favor by aiming mild hexes at Harry during Harry's games.

Two games ago, when Harry caught the snitch despite a surprisingly irritating Tickling Hex, he'd burst out laughing at the look of triumph on Harry's face.

Harry could still remember the way the wind had whipped his blond hair around his face, the tip of his nose pink from the cold. His smile was wider than Harry had ever seen it, and his eyes were doing that crinkling thing again.

“I'll have to bring out the Dementor costume again,” he had said cheerfully, ducking as Harry had lobbed the still-fluttering snitch at his head.

Harry tore off his own jumper and threw it on top of Malfoy's, followed quickly by his shirt and pants. Stepping into the shower was bliss. He tilted his head back and felt the hot water running in rivulets down his back. Clumps of mud softened and fell at his feet, and he slowly began to feel warm again.

“You've changed your soap,” Harry said, frowning at the strange scent.

Malfoy's head appeared at the edge of the cubicle, staring at him in astonishment. “You've memorised my _soap_ , Potter?”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “It stinks out the whole change room. Of course I have.”

Malfoy smirked, disappearing behind the wall again. “You love it.” His voice was muffled by the water.

Harry felt the strange urge to follow him, as if everything wrong with his life could be fixed, if he just found out what was on the other side of that wall.

He listened to the sounds of Malfoy singing under his breath, and turned away.

Malfoy took him out for dinner to celebrate his win. “Ordinarily, loser treats the winner,” he drawled, apparating them both to a wizard restaurant that looked like it must be near Wiltshire, “but I can't trust you to choose an appropriate restaurant. You understand.”

“Don't suppose I can trust you not to be an arse?” Harry said lightly, handing his coat to the attendant and stepping into the warmth.

“Come now, Potter.” Malfoy lead him through the winding maze of tables, covered in white cloths that looked softer than Harry's bedsheets, to where the maitre d' was waiting. “You know me better than that.”

When they were settled and their waiter had taken their drink order – Malfoy flatly refused to allow Harry to speak – Harry found himself feeling strangely quiet. His limbs were still buzzing from the exercise, and the heat from the shower hadn't yet left him. The restaurant was lit only by candles, and the soft hum of voices was making him sleepy.

It wasn't the kind of restaurant he would usually go to, but he knew that Malfoy liked it. For that reason, he supposed it wasn't too bad.

“Don't drift off on me, Potter.” Malfoy's voice was soft and pleasant, so unlike the acid tones of his youth.

How could he have changed so much, and yet, not at all? Malfoy's eyes glinted in the candlelight, and Harry realised he was staring.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Can't believe I used to be jealous of you,” he said lightly. “One five star restaurant, and you're practically quaking in your boots.”

“Just tired,” Harry said with a smile. “And you were never jealous of me.”

Malfoy laughed. “You were the Heir of Slytherin, and you weren't even in the bloody house. Talk about favoritism. I was determined to deck you for that alone.”

The waiter arrived to pour their drinks before disappearing as smoothly as a house elf.

“I wasn't the Heir of Slytherin,” Harry protested.

Malfoy waved a hand dismissively. “You could talk to snakes, and you never lost house points. I was jealous.”

“But you're not now.”

Malfoy's lips twitched into a small smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. “I've learned a thing or two about blind ambition.”

In all the time they had spent together, they had managed to so far avoid talk of Voldemort. Harry didn't see why that should change now.

“Smart move,” he said, raising his glass to take a sip.

He didn't think he imagined the heat in Malfoy's eyes. He wondered if Malfoy knew he felt the same.

 _Baby, I've been here before_  
_I've seen this room and I've walked this floor (you know)_  
_I used to live alone before I knew ya_  
_And I've seen your flag on the marble arch_  
_And love is not a victory march_  
_It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

The firelight flickered across Malfoy's face, casting long shadows across his cheekbones. The light was all that moved – Malfoy was still, his eyes staring into the distance somewhere above Harry's head.

Harry shifted. The hard cushion of the armchair was doing nothing to make him comfortable. He had never thought to find himself back at Malfoy Manor, and he had certainly never thought he would be back here on the eve of Lucius Malfoy's death.

A house elf appeared at his elbow, making him jump.

“Mistress Malfoy is being found, sirs,” the elf squeaked, her face streaked and grubby from recent tears. “And she is begging Mister Malfoy to stop sending his patronus.”

“I'll stop sending them when she comes home,” Malfoy snarled, his head whipping to face the elf so quickly that she stumbled backward in alarm.

She regained her composure and brought herself up to her full height. It was barely above Harry's knee. “Mistress Malfoy is to be doing no such thing, sir.” Her face was contorted into outrage. “Pippy is Mistress Malfoy's personal elf, and she is not to be listening to you anymore.”

With a sharp pop, Pippy disappeared. For several seconds, neither of them moved, and then Malfoy was standing, hurling curse after curse at the wall behind where she had stood until Harry somehow managed to tackle him and bring them both down to the floor.

“It's not fair,” Malfoy hissed, going limp where Harry held him. His face was turned as far away from Harry as it was possible to be, given that he was pressed against the floor. The tendons in his neck were standing out, he was holding himself so tense. He closed his eyes. “It's not fair.”

He began to shake, and Harry loosened his grip enough to allow Malfoy to curl in on himself, sobbing.

Harry hovered awkwardly. It wasn't fair. It was just, but it wasn't fair, not to Malfoy.

Gently, he lowered himself down until he was holding Malfoy again, his arms looped tightly around him. Malfoy shuddered and reached up, holding Harry close.

“Do you want me to get anyone?” Harry asked quietly. “Parkinson? Goyle?”

Mutely, Malfoy shook his head, burying his face into Harry's jumper. They were both still covered in dirt from Quidditch. Malfoy had grass stains on his knees from where he had fallen in his haste to reach the ground where his house elf was waiting to deliver the news.

It had not been scheduled. A Dementor attack, while Lucius Malfoy was awaiting his appeal. Harry knew that someone in the Ministry was behind it, but they had no way of finding out who. And the damage was done.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Harry felt wetness seep through his jumper as Malfoy shook his head again. His movements were weak, like a tired child. Carefully, Harry maneuvered them both up from the floor and over to the couch.

He held Malfoy as his shaking began to slow, wondering what it was about human comfort that made it the most basic of needs. Did it really matter who it was? So long as someone was here with him, tonight.

“I'm glad it's you here, Potter,” Malfoy murmured.

Harry pretended he didn't notice the crack in his voice, and simply drew him closer.

 _There was a time when you let me know_  
_What's really going on below_  
_But now you never show that to me, do ya?_  
_But remember when I moved in you_  
_And the holy dove was moving too_  
_And every breath we drew was Hallelujah_

Harry moved, his legs tangling in the sweat-soaked sheets below him. Malfoy arched up, and his mouth fell open in a silent gasp as Harry slowly thrust forward into him.

“Don't stop,” Malfoy whimpered.

Harry smirked and slowed further until Malfoy's hands were grasping desperately at the sheets. The warm flush across his chest was rising, moving up his neck and tinting his cheeks. Harry ached to kiss it, to hold their cheeks together and just lie there.

“Potter, you arse.” Malfoy panted and writhed, his head tilted back so that his long neck was exposed in the moonlight.

Harry bent down and nuzzled into the slick skin, tasting Malfoy's sweat with the tip of his tongue until Malfoy moaned and begged for more.

“Don't you think you could call me 'Harry'?” His voice was low, betraying just how far gone he was, and he didn't even care.

“I'll call you 'Longbottom' if you don't fucking move,” Malfoy snarled.

Harry laughed and obliged, thrusting deep and slow until Malfoy cried out, coherent speech forgotten, and came, his cock throbbing between them and Harry's name on his lips.

Harry shook his head slowly, the memory dissolving around him as the sharp sounds of Malfoy's anger broke through his thoughts.

“Are you even listening, Potter?” The bitter drawl was all too familiar. “Are you coming with me tonight, or not?”

Harry rubbed his hands slowly against his temples, wishing the headache would disappear. “Why should I, again?” He wished his voice didn't sound so tired.

He heard Malfoy sigh behind him. “Because it's a gala in _your honor_. I'm going to look like a bloody git if I show up without you. They all know we're living together now.”

“Then don't go. Stay here with me.”

There was a long silence. Harry imagined so many things that could fill it: a whispered apology, quiet footsteps coming closer, breathless moans and the slick sound of skin against skin.

Harry heard the sound of the door handle turning. “We have to move forward,” Malfoy said flatly, “or the world will move on without us.”

The door shut behind him.

Harry stood in the doorway for a long time, waiting for Malfoy to change his mind. When it became clear that he wasn't returning, he moved back to the living room, shoving piles of unread mail onto the floor and lying down on the couch. In amongst the ministry invitations and charity requests, he could see different letters, some in Hermione's neat script and some in Ron's messy scrawl. He thought there might be a letter or two from Luna and Neville.

He knew what they would say: menial updates about life in general, nothing meaningful, nothing tangible. Just reminders of the inescapable motion that would continue on and on, until one day, it didn't.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep. His dreams shifted into memories: lazy Sunday afternoons, falling asleep on this very couch and waking up with strong arms wrapped around him. He watched the gentle rise and fall of Malfoy's chest, running his fingers across Malfoy's skin and admiring the way his face softened in sleep, his lips plump and slightly parted, like a child's.

He woke in the middle of the night, cold except for the blanket that someone had placed there while he slept.

 _Maybe there's a God above_  
_But all I've ever learned from love_  
_Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya_  
_And it's not a cry that you hear at night_  
_It's not somebody who's seen the light_  
_It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

“Can you honestly tell me this is where you wanted to end up?”

The words rested between them, flat and cold. Harry thought Malfoy might have said them, but they could just have easily come from himself.

Malfoy lifted his head, his eyes moving from the Prophet to Harry. He said nothing.

“You were always so confident, so sure,” Harry said. It wasn't an answer, but it had hardly been a question.

“Not always.”

“When it mattered, you were.” Harry frowned, turning the brown mug around and around in his hands, warming his palms and watching the tea ripple in protest. “I know you. You had dreams. You could have achieved them.”

Harry saw Malfoy wince, even as he tried to hide it. “I still can,” he said, his voice carefully free of emotion.

Malfoy stood, picking up his traveling cloak from the table and resting it across his shoulders, tying the golden loops together with a flick of his wand. It fit him perfectly, as they always did.

He cut a fine figure in his tailored robes. Anyone would look at him and see a successful businessman, traversing the waters of a world Harry would never understand. Harry looked at him and saw the tired stoop of his shoulders, the flatness in his eyes that had never been there before.

“Can you honestly tell me this is where you wanted to end up?” Harry looked up, seeking Malfoy's eyes.

Malfoy paused, his fingers fumbling to a halt over his briefcase. He turned back to Harry, grey eyes flat and empty.

“There's nowhere I'd rather be,” he said. His voice was sincere. After all their time together, Harry could always tell when he was lying. He crossed the room and bent down to press his lips against Harry's, warm and soft. “And no one I'd rather be with.”

The door shut gently behind him, leaving Harry alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> For what it's worth, I don't see this as the end of the story. I'm not going to write anymore, but I see this only as a snapshot of an unhealthy and melancholic time for both of them. What they're feeling could change, but it will take a lot of work.


End file.
